


Here Comes the Sun

by strawberryfinn



Series: best friends turned lovers [1]
Category: One Direction (Band), X Factor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bullying, Fatherhood, Homophobia, M/M, POV Second Person, not really alternate universe but kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberryfinn/pseuds/strawberryfinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve watched him grow up, from the seven-year-old sitting in your backseat to the gentle sixteen-year-old, and you know you haven’t done right by him, but you’re going to try.</p><p>Or the one in which Bobby Horan watches his son grow up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes the Sun

This is your son at seven years old, buckled into your backseat, smile bright as he gazes out the window at the muddled coloured landscapes passing by. This is your son, eyes like slivers of cerulean stained glass, chocolate hair slightly disheveled as he sings, _Here comes the sun, and I say, it's alright._

 

You glance at him from the rearview mirror, your eyes fixed on the slim figure in the cable-knit green jumper. You want to say, _Look at those pipes, Niall, you're going to go so far with that voice._ You want to talk to him, to learn about his life, his friends, his favourite part of summer, hear about his favourite song and the last movie he saw with his friends at the cinema—want him to let you into his life.

 

Your own father never tossed words back and forth easily with you, never knew how to engage you or be fun and interesting. You grew up promising if you ever had kids, you wouldn't be your dad. And you were—you have been a good father, at least to your older son. Your older son has always been easy, always been undoubtedly boyish, masculine, with a robust torso, and an appetite for excellence akin to yours. 

 

You can talk to Greg like he's an old friend, but there's a seven-year-old in the backseat who craves your attention, and you don't know how to speak to him. You want to talk to your son, but instead you ask him to quiet down. Instead of encouraging him, you ask him if he's excited for school, because education is a route that is safe, that will go somewhere, and music is uncertain.

 

Your seven-year-old stops singing, forehead wrinkling with uncertainty, and he starts worrying his fingernails, gnawing at a loose hangnail. “I guess,” he whispers a bit morosely, voice soft. “I'm kinda scared.”

 

“You'll do well,” you say, and you see your expectations weigh down on his small shoulders, like he's classical Greek Titan, Atlas, holding up the entire world. He doesn't reply, just pushes his backpack between his shoes.

 

When your car finally rolls to a stop in front of his school, you breathe a sigh of relief, and feel the pang of guilt run through your chest because this is your _son,_ and these precious moments in the car driving him to school are the only times you spend time alone with him. 

 

To give the guilt even more weight, Niall looks relieved as he scrambles to grab his backpack and exits the car. You watch him as he straightens the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, waving a dutiful goodbye.

 

“Study hard,” you tell him, and when he promises, “Yes, Daddy,” you pretend he's saying, _I love you._

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, ten years old and clutching his guitar like it's a lover, even though he's much too young to realize it. One hand is settled at the neck of the instrument, the other hand's skillful fingers threaded into the strings. The guitar is old, wood faded and edges worn, but it's beautiful, radiant like your son. Your son's eyes are closed in quiet dedication as he plays, all attention devoted to the piece, focus that you've tried to instill in him.

 

This is your son, who is simultaneously a child and an adult, teaching himself the “Romanza.” The Spanish melody, slow and sweet, drifts through the air. You watch from the door of his bedroom, think to yourself you should step in and say, _That sounds great, Niall, tell me about the piece._ Today, right _now,_ you tell yourself, you'll go in there and have a conversation with him as easily as your wife Maura can, today will be the day.

 

Instead you close your eyes. You walk away, footsteps heavy, kicking yourself for being a coward. You tell yourself that tomorrow you will tell him you love him, _tomorrow._

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, sitting at the dinner table, who tells you he wants to join the school choir. Your wife encourages him, smiling gently, while glaring at you, prodding you in the side to do the same.

 

You close your eyes because this is your son, this eleven-year-old boy with hair the colour of a corn husk, who started dyeing it because he wanted to be blonde like his mother. This is your son with pale, lightly freckled skin, and the bright, crystal blue eyes he inherited from you. You think about his words, and you're finding the courage to speak out, tell him, _You can do whatever you want to, son,_ but you don't get the chance.

 

Your older son Greg narrows his eyes and snorts as he tears at a roll in his hands. “Niall, that's an elective for fairies—you want everyone to think you're a poof?”

 

“Greg!” your wife says, pursing her lips in displeasure, not bothering to check the anger in her voice. “Don't discourage your brother.”

 

Niall fastens his teeth into his thin bottom lip, which is dry and worn, and you make a mental note to tell him to use the chap-stick you bought him. “Dad? What do you think?”

 

You can feel his eyes boring holes through your face, searching your mind for potential answers. You can smell the doubt in the air, you're acutely aware of the way Niall's fingers are trembling around his fork, the hesitancy that lines his voice.

 

_I think you should go for it,_ you want to say, because you've seen Niall's passion for music, you've seen your younger son coaxing life into guitar strings. You know that for Niall, when words fail, music speaks.

 

You know that's what other parents would say—other parents might be concerned for a second, but wave it off, tell their children, _you can do anything you want to; you can achieve anything you set your heart on,_ but you know it's not the truth. Those parents are illogical, flighty, their kids will be made of sugar, capable of crumpling any second, but not your child, not on your watch. You're determined to have your child be solid and strong, with the foundation of a skyscraper because the world is cruel, and you won't let it hurt him, won't let him be torn down.

 

You want him to go after what he loves, you want him to be happy, but you know that Greg is right. Greg's gone through primary school, he knows how they treat the kids in the choir, has a firm grasp on reality, while your youngest has his head and soul in the clouds, up in the atmosphere.

 

“I think you should go out for the football team, Niall,” you hear your traitorous voice saying, suspended like it's not in your control. “That might build more character, don't you think?”

 

Your wife gasps besides you, a choked “Bobby!” clogging her throat as she silently chastises you, but you only have eyes for your nervous eleven-year-old who has morosely stabbed his fork into a piece of broccoli on his plate.

 

“Okay,” your son says, and you see the disappointment on his face as he glances at the floor. “Okay, Dad.”

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, in his red and white jersey, blades of grass and mud clumped to his cleats as he runs across the field. He passes by you, dashing in front of a player on the other team, narrow foot hitting the edge of the checkered football. You watch his face light up at his success before the other player catches him in the side, and he stumbles and crumples onto the field.

 

The referee is already calling a penalty on the other player, and you watch, your heart in your throat as Niall straightens himself out, wincing as he places weight on his ankle. He has to sit on the bench for the rest of the game, a bag of ice on his foot.

 

You ask him if he's okay on the ride back, and he tells you, “Yeah, Dad, I'm sorry I messed up,” and you should tell him _you haven't messed up, I have_ but you don't. Instead, you think of how you've failed him and you don't say anything at all.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, standing hesitantly at the door of your study, as you sit and fill out tax forms. He's fifteen with awkward, long limbs and a shirt that's too long for his small torso, and before you can ask him what he needs he starts crying.

 

You watch, mouth dropped open slightly, and you watch him, curled up, face buried in crumpled hands, looking so, so _small._

 

_Move,_ you tell yourself. _Move, you idiot. Move. Hold him._

 

But you sit there, numb and stoic as your son falls apart.

 

“D-Dad,” he whimpers, attempting to gain some control over his emotions and his expressions, and you can see the effort straining behind his furrowed brows. “Y-you... you see, th-the web-website and the b-book... the book said it would b-be a g-good i-i-i _dea_ to tell your family, and I-I al-already told M-Mam but I...” his voice cracks, and he swipes furiously at his eyes. You will your feet to listen to you, will your body to stand up and move over to him and hold him—the son you held in your shaking hands the day he was born, the son you love, even if you don't know how to express it.

 

“You _coward_ ,” Niall's voice breaks, crescendoing into a higher note, and you feel can feel the pain radiating outwards of him, racking his body, as he folds in on himself like a piece of human origami. “You _c-coward,_ ” he berates himself, and strains, “D-Dad... I-I'm... I'm _gay_. I'm Niall Horan, and I'm _gay_...” he looks up at you, face mottled with misery, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.

 

_Move, you damned fool,_ your mind screams, but instead you sit and you think about his admission. You imagine your son going to the library for one of the first times in his life to check out books on sexuality, imagine him marking pages with small post-its as he flips from chapter to chapter. You think about how long he kept this churning inside of him until he could tell you, imagine him fearing your reaction.

 

_Go to him,_ your heart says, _go to him, now,_ but all you can see is that the world, which you've worked to make kind and sweet and beautiful, the world in which you've trained him to survive, is not going to be nice to him. Adolescence has already brought with it acne and crooked teeth and a voice that cracks, and you don't care, you don't care that he's gay, you're just afraid that the rest of the world won't feel the same.

 

You want to tell him these things, but instead you go for the secure answer, the safe one.

 

“Go set the table,” you respond, and you see his jaw snap shut like a drawbridge. What's left of your relationship, what's left of the little trust you have has dissipated, and you want to kick yourself, want to berate yourself for letting it happen. Your son squares his shoulders, pulls his zippered sweater up higher on his shoulders, slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

 

You turn your attention to the form at hand, try to hide the fact that your pen is shaking in your fingers, that everything is hazy and blurred. You sign the line with flourish, but it's a bit off, not as neat as your signature usually is, and you see something slightly out of your line of vision.

 

“I'm still me,” he says, sniffling softly. “I'm still me, Dad.”

 

_I know,_ you want to say, _I know you're still you, and you're my son and I love you and I always will._

 

But you don't look at him. You dig out another envelope from your pile of mail and open it, and he shuffles off to the kitchen.

 

You pretend not to hear him cry and you hate yourself. You remember how he called himself a coward, and he couldn't be more wrong. You're the coward, and he's a braver, better man that you'll ever be.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your sixteen-year-old son, shaking in the hard-backed chair in the principal's office. His lip is split and his cheek is bruised under the hollow of his eye, and he's trembling so hard you're afraid he might just break. Your ex-wife is on his other side, and you watch as Maura squeezes his hand hard, and as Niall turns to look at her, you can see a deep, bloody gash over his collarbone. It's spilling into the fabric of his school uniform, painting the shirt a rust colour. Your hands are in fists, and you want to punch something, but you're a proper man, you've taught Niall to avoid violence, to talk things through with words, because that's all you know how to do.

 

The principal is an older gentleman named Mr. Cairns. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose, and he looks grave as he prompts, “Can you tell us what happened, Niall?”

 

“I... I was leaving football practice,” Niall starts, and his words blur together, rushed and muddled by his thick accent. “I... These boys... they j-jumped me. Um... they called me f-f- _faggot,_ ” he spits the word, looking absolutely terrified, his blue eyes wide in his too small, too young face. His voice wavers as though he's hoping—no he's certain—that it's a mistake—that they weren't aiming for him, that they mistook him for someone else, because he can't understand how the world that created music and friendship and beauty is capable of holding uneducated, unwarranted _hate._

 

Something lurches in your chest, and for a second, you think you might be sick on the plush carpet of the principal's office. Coláiste Mhuire is a Christian Brothers school, Mullingar's oldest post primary school. It's a Secondary Catholic School, and made up of boys that are trained to be gentlemen, boys who are meant to go out and get white-collar jobs. The pupils wear grey uniforms, are taught how to answer questions politely. Things like this don't happen at this school; you chose it for Niall for that reason, wanted him to be safe.

 

“What were the boys' names?” Mr. Cairns prods your son, reaching over to touch his arm. Niall jerks out of his grasp, and then relaxes into Maura's touch, Maura who is sitting there with unshed tears bright in her eyes. You wonder how you let her become a stranger too, let everyone and everything good in your life get away from you.

 

“I... I d-don't know,” Niall chokes through his tears, “they b-blindfolded me,” and you want to set fire to the entire school, to set the world aflame for hurting your baby boy, your boy who put on talent shows for your entire family before Christmas dinner, your boy who you used to tuck into bed, your boy who crowed to his entire classroom of five-year-olds that you were his hero and he wanted to be just like you when he grew up, when you wanted to tell him, _I hope you're nothing like me._

 

Your son begins to cry in earnest, and Mr. Cairns looks at him, tutting sympathetically. “Well, Niall, it's going to prove very difficult for us to take any reciprocative measures if you're unable to identify your attackers. To be quite honest, they might not have even been students at Coláiste Mhuire, and I don't see it as our school's policy to-”

 

“Bullshit.” Your ex-wife's voice is shrill and pitchy and nearly hysterical, but firm, no-nonsense. Maura is glaring at Mr. Cairns, Niall's body pulled into her protective grasp, “How _dare_ you? My son is hurt and he was attacked on school premises, and if you have your head too far up your ass to see that and if you're too much of a coward to do something, we'll be taking Niall somewhere else.”

 

“Mam,” Niall tries weakly, but your ex-wife shushes him, and he may be in your ex-wife's arms, but his eyes are on you. Your son is sixteen and he's staring at you with those hopeful eyes, willing for you to stand up for him, but you let Maura fight the battle.

 

“Be brave,” Maura whispers, pressing a kiss to Niall's forehead and beaming at him with a watery smile.

 

_You shouldn't have to be brave,_ you want to say, because he's sixteen and he has his whole life in front of him, and he is beautiful and strong and inherently good. But instead you tell him he'll get through this, it'll be okay.

 

He doesn't look like he believes you in the slightest, but you figure you deserve that.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son who's been too terrified to go to school since the Incident. You don't talk about it once he gets back from the hospital. You feel as though you're walking around him on eggshells, and everything is deeper, darker, heavier than it's been before. You feel like you're trapped in a comforter and you're suffocating slowly, and you wonder if you're feeling like this, he must be feeling infinitely worse. You shudder when you imagine it, and you don't know how he is because you don't ask.

 

Niall loses weight, he's listless. The wounds heal, and all that's physically left is the small scar on his collarbone, society's angry mark, and you think and damn the world, silently screaming, _you can't have him._

 

It's surprisingly Greg who saves Niall. He comes back, claps a hand on Niall's back, tells your youngest, “I signed you up for the X Factor,” and when Niall smiles for the first time since the Incident, you fight the need to cry.

 

You don't know what the X Factor is, but apparently it's a singing competition on the tele. Maura drives Niall to the audition, and you meet them in line. Your eyes fix on the number 232677 in big black letters printed on the white paper pinned to his sweater.

 

You want this for him, you do. You know what it means if he goes through—he won't have to go back to school, he'll be doing what he loves, he'll be surrounded by musicians. A community that loves him, that will work with him.

 

But at the same time you want him home. You can watch him there, can make sure he's safe, can swaddle him in blankets—you realize now, you value his safety above everything, even over his happiness. You watch from backstage at the audition, breath caught in your throat, heart racing so fast you think you might pass out, and you almost don't want the judges to say yes, because throwing him on a stage means that more people can see him, more people can _hurt_ him.

 

He gets through.

 

You want to crow your pride from rooftops, want to declare _this is my son,_ this is what he's achieved when the rest of the world has tried to stamp out his spirit. 

 

When he meets you backstage, trembling in excitement and disbelief, you pull him in for a dutiful hug, and you're guilty when he tenses in your grip, as though it's unfamiliar.

 

_Congratulations,_ you want to say, but instead you say, “Make sure you practice hard. Don't get your hopes up.”

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, a pale face on the tele, blue eyes brighter than ever as he stands by these other boys who didn't make the cut as solo artists. There's a group of girls on the other end of the stage, but you pay them no mind, you don't even look at the boys surrounding your son, because it's your son, your boy, with the bright blue eyes and blonde hair.

 

You just watched him run frustrated fingers through his hair, pull his brown sweater over his face because you've shown him not to cry in front of others. You watch him claim, “This is the worst thing that ever happened in me life. Standing there waiting for your name to be called, and then it's not...” and you think that it's not the worst thing that's ever happened to him, and it won't be, but it hurts that much more because he wants _this_ so badly, and it's completely out of your hands.

 

“We think it would be a good idea to have two separate groups,” says one of the female judges with manicured eyebrows and perfect skin. Your heart beats in trepidation, even though you know what's coming, you've already heard from him when he called you, voice shaking with disbelief, but it's another thing to watch it on screen, the way it's being aired across the country.

 

Now, Simon, the judge with furrowed eyebrows akin to caterpillars, eyes them all seriously as he says, “We've decided to put you both through.”

 

Your son leaps into the air. He's wearing a navy jumper with a collared shirt and jeans, looks presentable like you've taught him, but there's that energy, that spirit you've never understood bursting through, as though he'll nearly explode at the seams. You watch the five boys—the five strangers, really—pull each other into a group hug, already forming an effortless relationship—one that you've strained to form with Niall for forever. 

 

“You've got a real shot here, guys,” are Simon's closing words, and you want to thank him, thank him for seeing that your son has potential, thank him for giving him hope, for giving Niall a lifeline and showing him that his blind faith in the world isn't a curse.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, happier than you've ever seen him, voice spiraling out with a fervor you didn't know he possessed. You watch him dance (terribly) on stage, bright lights and smoke obscuring the pure, youthful talent that rips itself out of his throat.

 

_Let us die young or let us live forever,_ the boys sing, and you think about how true the words are. You think about your son playing guitar, your son tapping out a rhythmic beat against the table, your son who made a mixed palette of vibrant colour from your the black and white, newsprint life.

 

You sit on the couch and you watch your son perform, and you hope he's happy. You're glad he's found people he can trust, people who are better for him than you are, and a selfish part of you wants to have him back. You wonder if any of the boys know that they, One Direction, has saved his life.

 

There's an interview after the performance, and someone shoves a microphone up to your son's mouth. “Niall, what do you want to do? What are your goals for One Direction?”

 

Your son hesitates for a second, licking his chapped lips, before whispering, “I just really want to make my family proud. My mam, and my brother, and... mostly my dad, really.”

 

It's like a shot to the heart, and you sit there watching his pixelated image on the screen of your tele.

 

You wonder if this is an attempt at forgiveness, and you hate yourself, because you're the one that should be apologizing.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, shaking your hand dutifully with a firm, thick handshake the way you've taught him when you and Maura and Greg come to watch him on one of the live shows of the X Factor. He hugs and kisses his mam, lets her squeeze him tight and whisper, “I'm so proud of you.” You watch as the words “I love you” tumble easily off her lips, the three words you've always wanted to say.

 

He's quiet and polite, the way you've raised him. He asks how your work is going, how Greg's doing at uni, how Maura's book club is. His inquiries are gestures, this young gentleman you've constructed, and you can see the fragments of yourself in him which both thrill you and frighten you, because it's only these bits—these grossly regulated mannerisms—that make him recognizable as your son.

 

And then the door opens and the boys come in, the boys on the stairs you've come to know from watching your son on the tele, but the boys you've never met until now. You know that the dark-haired one with the fragile cheekbones and guarded expression is Zayn, know that two of the brunettes are Louis and Liam, but you can't quite tell them apart yet until you register that Louis's eyes are blue, darker and stormier than your son's, that Liam is a bit awkward and talks too fast but has a kind smile, and then there's Harry, Harry with untamed curls of hair, who immediately pulls your son into a hug.

 

The boys come in, their parents behind them, but as always, you only have eyes for your son—your son who transforms from the respectable, responsible sixteen-year-old to that tiny seven-year-old, body emanating that energy, that spirit that you hoped would never disappear and struggled to preserve. Your son with that passion that nameless bullies and cruel words tried to rip away, your son who has found his home among four strangers—four children, really—who have become the family you were never able to offer.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, whom you pass by when you're walking by their room in the X Factor house. The boys bunk together, you know that, sandwiched like sardines—probably too close to breathe properly without an elbow in the side, but they're happy, unbelievably happy, unbelievably hopeful. This is your son, who sounds unsure but joyful, who is too young to know what commitment is and what l-o-v-e spells out, and it's because of you.

 

You blush when you hear them, soft voices riddled with adolescent innocence, soft sound of gentle, wet kisses and embarrassed giggles. You didn't know for sure, but you're not an idiot, you suspected as much. You've gathered something from the way your son clings to this boy on TV, the way your son's face lights up when this boy sings, whether onstage or offstage.

 

“So this is nice,” you hear Harry say. “You smell good.”

 

You hear your son's intake of breath mirror your own, and you watch silently from the doorway.

 

Your son is curled up into the other boy's side. The younger boy has his fingers splayed across the strip of bare skin on your son's stomach where his t-shirt rides up, fingers that taper up to touch the edge of Niall's collarbones.

 

“What's this? Is this a _scar_?” you hear Harry ask, and you crane your neck forward to hear, watch Niall shift out of Harry's grasp to wrap his arms defensively, protectively around himself.

 

“Nothin',” he mutters, eyes glued on the floor, “don't worry about it, okay?”

 

Harry struggles into a seated position, automatically reaches for Niall's wrist to pull his arm off his chest. “You can tell me anything you want, or you don't have to tell me anything at all, Niall. I love you.”

 

You're blinded by the honesty, the intimacy of Harry's language, and you watch Niall fold himself into the other boy's arms. You hear him breathe heavily before he admits, “A lot of the guys liked to pick on the resident gay kid.”

 

You expect Harry to react with horror, the way your ex-wife did, to apologize for societal standards of masculinity, to tell Niall the world is full of evil people who are defined by homophobia. He simultaneously does none of them and all of them.

 

You watch the boy with eyes the colour of green gummy bears lean forward to press a kiss to the scar on your son's collarbone, gentle and sweet, like a promise. You watch the British boy from Holmes Chapel tell your son he's wanted, he's loved, he's cherished, he's safe.

 

You turn away and press the heel of your hand to your eye.

 

It comes away wet.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son's boyfriend, who catches you as you walk out of the bathroom. You're surprised to see him, the curly-haired lad, but there's no mark of those familiar dimples because there's no smile in sight.

 

“Mr. Horan?” The boy—Harry—is in front of you, eyes cautious as though he's afraid of you. It stings because it means Niall's had conversations about you, slipped little details in here and there, and Harry already has an idea of who you are, expects you to lash out, be violent and cruel. “Can I talk to you?”

 

_No,_ you want to say, _no, I'm quite tired, I'd like to rest,_ but you hear yourself saying, “Yes,” and you follow him into a room where he closes the door.

 

You feel like a man with a prison sentence.

 

“I... It may be a bit forward of me to ask this,” Harry begins, and he pauses, but before you can say anything he rushes, “but... Niall... Niall really loves you,” he blurts. “Honest, Mr. Horan. I swear, he's always talking about how much he wants to make you proud, and I... I don't know too much about your relationship with him, but why do you treat him like you don't care?”

 

“I do care,” you say, almost dangerously, bated breath. Harry looks stricken, moves out of your range, and you wonder if he's afraid you might hit him. The thought is nauseating, and you sit down into a chair with your head in your hands, wondering how you possibly let yourself say _tomorrow_ so many times, let yourself miss out on all those _I love you's._

 

“I'm _so_ proud of him,” you manage, “and it's not just because of the X Factor, or because of the band. It's not just because he's famous and he's doing well on the show... I've always loved him, and I always will. He's the best person I know,” you say, and you're spilling these words—more honest than anything you've ever said—to a complete stranger.

 

You look up to see Harry's eyes on you, green eyes shiny with unshed tears. He doesn't make a move to dry his eyes, but instead says, “With all due respect, Mr. Horan, I'm not the person you should be telling this.”

 

He leaves, and you wonder how you've been schooled by a mere boy, a mere child. You wonder if his youth is what has given him the confidence (and the near brash foolishness) to utter what Niall has evaded asking for years, what your ex-wife hinted at, but never said out loud.

 

You wonder if this boy, this Harry Styles, loves your son as much as you do.

 

You hope he does.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son after One Direction doesn't win the X Factor.

 

He looks ashamed when he meets you backstage, an apology automatically spilling off his lips, “I'm sorry we failed; I'm sorry I let you down, Dad.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hands, and you think about this incredible, perfect young man you have in front of you, the boy you've molded, the boy you would do anything for.

 

“You haven't failed me,” you say, dragging up the courage that's been instilled in you by the young boy from Cheshire, the young boy—Harry—who used to work in a bakery. You wonder if he is as gentle and dedicated with your son as he was with the cakes and the pastries he used to frost. 

 

He looks at you like he doesn't believe you for a second, but nods politely, expecting this to be the end of the conversation.

 

You can't let it happen again.

 

“I never missed an episode,” you tell him, “I watched every single one live.”

 

“We're gonna be signed,” he responds, and you still taste the _I'm sorry_ in the air, because you've trained and pushed him to be a winner, to excel, and he's never done it easily, but he's always, always tried. And you need him to know that, need to take this stranger standing in front of you, and make him your son again. So you tell him the words you've always wanted to.

 

“I like Harry,” you say and he looks so shocked that you wonder if you've overstepped.

 

This is your son, with his bottom lip trembling precariously, eyes wrinkling up at the sides. “You do?” he wavers, and there's a battalion of questions stored behind those two words like _do you wish I were different?_

 

But for someone so bent on professionalism, making the rest of the world happy, you've never been good with words. So you clap a shoulder onto his hand and pull him into your chest in an embrace, a silent _I love you_ caught in the kiss you press against the skin of his forehead. 

 

“I do. He's good for you,” you reply, and when Niall starts to cry into the clean fabric of your pressed shirt, you let yourself go the way you should have done all his life. You stand there, father and son, crying together, and the world bring with it what it may, you two are invincible, standing tall and strong in the midst of a storm. 

 

You think to yourself that it's much too late, but it's a start.

___________________________________________________________________________

This is your son, bouncing on the balls of his feet, dressed in khaki trousers, a light grey cardigan, and a t-shirt that belongs to his boyfriend. This is your son, leaping up into the air, fist pumping into the sky like this is his own personal victory (and it is), fingers wrapped around the microphone as he sings out to the hundreds ( _thousands?_ ) of screaming fans in the audience. The lyrics are kitschy and designed for an audience of teenage girls, but you've never quite seen this fervor ripping itself out of his throat, his entire body rippling, alive.

 

You watch, stunned, heart pounding and careening against your ribcage, as your son jumps around the stage, fueled with adrenaline. You watch as his band mate, Zayn with the impossible eyelashes, nuzzles the side of Niall's neck affectionately, watch Louis slap your son's bum playfully, watch Liam hand him a water bottle when he steps back from the grabbing hands, the faceless masses of the audience. You watch Harry— _Harry_ —lace his fingers into your youngest's hand, a wordless _of course_ as they gaze out at their kingdom below them.

 

You watch as your son grips hard onto Harry's hand, hard like it's a lifeline, like they're tethered together, as he turns and sings, “I'm in love with _you_ ,” as he harmonizes with the curly-haired boy next to him.

 

You watch them walk hand in hand, soles of their feet light and bodies weightless like they were never meant for this world. You watch them as they clutch at each other, quiet, intense intimacy that's so raw and _real_ you feel like nobody should be allowed to see them. They teeter at the edge of the stage, like they were never meant for this world, like they have no limitations, and your head is pounding hard as you think that this is _theirs_ , this is the truth that they're singing. They walk together, surrounded by an audience that loves them, and you know it's where they're meant to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Before you go apeshit on me and say it’s not accurate, it’s not meant to be completely real. I made Bobby my own character and I want you to understand that Bobby isn’t supposed to be a monster, he just is so determined to protect Niall that sometimes he forgets how to breathe.
> 
> Ugh Idk, I hope you liked it. xx


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